Wu wei, Shifu always told me, is the secret to following The Path. It means surrendering intention, ditching every plan, keeping interference to a minimum. Abdicating protagonism and letting the Dao be isn’t easy. But for Daoists, it’s the only way to Enlightenment.
“Fuck that,” I say to myself, as I place the last poster I had to pin. A mumble only, yet full of pride, like a vocal pat on my own shoulder. “Women-only Self Defense, Wudang School of Tai Chi. From the People’s Republic of China, at the People’s Park of Berkeley. Mondays and Wednesdays, 5-7pm—First class free.” This girl ain’t surrendering anything, baby.
Next to me, a middle-aged woman awakes from her trance and locks her eyes onto my scarred tattoo. A minute ago, she had her messy red hair, self-important eyes and a scent of tobacco hidden behind a steaming cappuccino, and her Modern American Art book. Now, she’s on me. I can feel it. Maybe my mumble was a bit too loud? She gives me a thumbs up, and I’m not sure if it’s for the art on my arm or the poster on the wall. When I moved to America, I came on a mission: become the new Bruce Lee. Take the kung fu traditions of Wudang, add my own twist, and create a new style so famous, men will be afraid of messing with the ladies around them.
Take this lady with the book, for example. Maybe after finishing her paper on painted art, she could go spill some teeth with fighting arts? Violence is beautiful too, I want to tell her, you just need to learn to appreciate it. But she’s back hiding in her universe of thoughts. If she was my student, I’d force her into an hour of low stance until her burning muscles force her to apologize.
But she’s not. Besides, the giant clock on the wall reminds me I am late. My plan requires reputation. I need big, strong men telling everyone what I did to them. How I beat them with ease.
Two days ago, right when the big Californian Fires began, I met a Russian named Andrei. Shifu would say those who look for trouble often find it. I did. I tighten my eyes. Inside my head, a light bursts, and immediately I am there.
We are in bed, Andrei and I, and my blood tastes like iron. Much more than what I remember in China. Must be the food. I spit it, leaving another stain on the old carpet of the cheap-ass motel the Russian picked. He pins me down against the mattress and behind his round shaved head, the moon glows like a halo of a Christian angel. It’s the third time he’s hit me in the face, the Russian angel. In the corner, sitting on a moldy chair, another man waits for his turn, with the smug face of someone who can feel his prize coming already. Not yet, sir. Not today. I shrimp from underneath his friend, just like Jason taught me, and jump to the edge of the room. Andrei follows me with so much gusto, he becomes an easy throw. Every time I fight a man, he does the exact same fucking thing. Oh I’ll take it easy, it’s a girl. Oh shit, the girl is good. Oh shit, I’m getting beat, let me just try and smash as hard as I can. And then the panic arises—that’s right motherfucker, you might lose.
He slams the floor, barely missing the TV table on the other side. First Russian out.
People often dismiss Tai Chi as a fighting style, because their only contact with it is watching the elder doing it in the park. Slow and gentle. Tai Chi is for health but it’s for fighting too. The flying Russian just got a taste of it. Shifu would have praised me for that, then he would bop me in the head. “It may have worked, but that wasn’t full Tai Chi.” I can see it. He’s right in front of me and I look upward to his massive figure—a memory so fresh I can feel his breath. “When Zhang Sanfeng created Tai Chi, he was inspired by a fight between a bird and a snake, he invented a way to fight while being soft. You want to honor Tai Chi, you show you can do it soft too.”
A scent of smoke brings me back to the motel. Remember, Yinyin: soft. Now breathe.
One Russian left. He jumps on the mattress, swings a haymaker that almost hits me. That’s what I get for getting distracted. Focus, Yinyin. The dude’s too strong for sloppiness.
Shifu is right. With violence, I can batter them. But if I want to create a style all women can use, I must show they can do it without my level of savagery.
My body bends and yields as his forearm comes so close my hair wants to flow with it. Underneath my feet, the softness of the mattress makes standing on one leg a bit more challenging, but hey, it’s difficult for him too. I tap his leg with my heel, gently, but enough to throw him off balance. In Tai Chi, every step is a kick, every kick is a step. Yes, that works. I can teach other girls to do that!
Creating a new style requires commitment. Having an original idea (old masters took them from animals, but I guess all animals in China have been used already, even ducks!) Then you need to put the idea to a test. Pure, no contamination with your talent and strength. Invest in loss, until it wins. Only then the world will remember you for generations to come.
Zhang Sanfeng did that. So did Shang Yunxiang. And Muhammad Ali, Helio Gracie, Miyamoto Musashi, Gichin Funakoshi, Jigoro Kano, Bruce Lee. Every fighting immortal at some point had to abandon the formulas they learned and put their new ideas to the test. ‘Cause ideas are like fire: they either light the world or fade into a thin string of smoke no one will ever remember. If I want to join them, mine should burn bright too.
The second Russian is called Ivan, the ship’s cook. Everyone fears the chef on a military ship, they say. Let’s see. He tries a thrust kick that would never land, especially when you’re still trying to recover the grasp of the floor. Slightly dumb, even though the unwavering commitment to the fight is worthy of a commendation. That’s why I got excited when the Russians responded to my Craigslist ad asking for a sparring partner. “Someone willing to get hurt,” it said next to a photo of me looking cute, just to tickle their egos a little bit.
Eastern Europeans, especially those in the navy, are tough, proud and don’t give a shit. Those two were in town for Fleet Week, when ships from all countries come to show off and get laid. Making some extra money fighting a girl wouldn’t hurt. Maybe they could even screw me too, I bet they thought. A kinky Chinese girl who likes strong men to play rough. Dumbasses. But I’ve got to remember the reason I’m doing this: to test my skills in a way every woman….
We face off, Ivan and me. Our arms brush, his as big as my chest, and I can smell him. Garlic, diesel and distress. Fear has a different scent from courage. Ordinary people can’t tell because they are too busy staring at their own stupid lives. But I can. He pressures me, a bit harder than he should, and smiles, must think he’s winning. Awesome. Now a hip twist and…push! The man crashes over the counter, then to the floor. An old rotary phone and a tacky lamp follow, making the mess much noisier, and slightly funny. He grunts, rubs the back of his neck, but is free.
On the other side of the wall, someone knocks and barks a few muffled obscenities. Shhh, we tell each other behind our collective cackle, and let the white noise of the highway soothe us again. Sleep well, neighbor. Or trip well. Or fuck well. Whatever you’re doing in your Interstate Palace next door.
Enough. I raise my hand. Palm up, fingers semi-clenched, like a tiger claw. Roar in mockery. We both laugh. Then frown again and I unleash hell. Before the cook can gain distance—if there is such a thing as distance when two people fight over a queen motel bed—I spin my body, land a back fist on Ivan’s face. Later I will call that move the Bolshoi, a little homage to the Russian sailor. He is done too.
Still groggy from the slugging, a recovering Andrei, the angel, drags his body toward his half-lifeless friend. His face swollen. Bones to fix in both comrades. Not very soft of me, I admit. Gotta work on that. My head is a bit watery. Above me, there’s a big round hole in the ceiling panel. Damn, will I get another concussion? When did that happen? Although in the headaches department, that’s the least of my problems. Let the Dao be, I tell myself. Focus on the plan, and flow with the consequences.
In my gym bag, I dig through the stack of posters I plan to stick around Berkeley, the messages between Andrei and me confirming that neither of us would go legal on each other if we were battered during the fight, and, finally, the little wallet I was looking for. The small stash of twenty-dollar bills that run against each other as I fan them open for the losers to see. Then toss them at the two.
“Tell your friends about me,” I say, as the money spins its way to the floor. Beyond the door, the thick smoke from the burning woods and the sound of cars speeding a few feet away blast in and I am ready to leave when Andrei raises his arm. “Wait.” I pause. It must be something very important for him to want me to get close again. He reaches into his back pocket and grabs a piece of paper. “Tell them Andrei Ivanov send you.”
A handwritten address in Oakland, and a name: The School.
Days after the encounter with the Russians, I am pinning posters for my Tai Chi classes on the boards of every coffee shop near the University and enjoying it. Good to have something mechanical to relax the mind. Even if the support from the patrons is merely conceptual, like a thumbs up or a noncommittal grin before they get back to ignoring me behind their books and screens. The fires aren’t fully controlled yet, but the air quality isn’t that bad, which is good because this afternoon I am having my first big bout, with an audience and everything, at the place Andrei recommended. Thank you, Andrei.
The ride picks me up in just two minutes. I tell him the address, but he has it already. It’s on the system, he tells me. It’s rush hour, and with the traffic pouring so heavily from the Bay Bridge, moving within the East Bay isn’t the easiest thing. “Please,” I implore the driver, “I can’t be late tonight.”
“You won’t,” he promises. The voice from the radio continues midway into a story. “Studies from Berkeley and Stanford seem to agree that the fires were at least partially caused by a failure of the system controlling power surges.” It cuts to an interview with a sad executive spewing excuses, “Safety measures aren’t triggered without an emergency, that’s why they were missed by our post-blackout task force.”
“Someone needs to be fired for that. Or arrested. I don’t know,” says the driver, “But it ain’t gonna happen ’cause they’re still a bunch of rich white dudes.” He pauses for a second. “Do you want me to turn it back on, madam? The radio? And sorry for the politics, I need the five stars, you know, so whatever your highness wants.”
“Silence would be better,” I say.
“Oooooh! Sorry,” he replies.
Without his chatter, the streets of Oakland seem calmer. It’s just the wind blasting through the window, interrupted only by the rhythmic passage of light posts. Flaf! Flaf! Flaf! Everything so paced. So…hypnotic. Flaf! Flaf! Flaf! Then a bright light. Flash!
A few yards away from me, a long, tall, white wall. And glass. What? There’s no more cab. No more driver. I am inside some sort of glass box, a net covering my face and a strong smell of iodine and…propolis? Inches from my eyes, a bumble bee strides over the net. So close, I can see her little birthmark: a thin dark stroke in one of her first yellow stripes. It’s like a flash of my own memories, except that I don’t remember any of it. I say, “Hi, Pamela. Wanna go watch something cool with Papa today?” The voice…it isn’t mine either! What the fuck is going on? Am I going crazy for real this time? Jason always says these concussions would eventually….
“Hi, Papa, so nice of you to ask. I’d love to,” Pamela answers. Not her real voice, ‘cause she’s a bee. Her imaginary, make-believe voice. Here’s the thing about inner dialogues: they all sound like you. When you think, when you imagine something, unless you tell yourself you want that thought to sound like Lady Gaga or Michelle Yeoh, it’s going to be your own voice that is going to be speaking. And here’s the thing about Pamela: she didn’t sound like me. Or anything I told her to sound like, because I have no clue who Pamela is. No, it sounded like a higher-pitched version of the dude speaking with her. That was his memory. But how? “It’s gonna be a great fight, Pam, I promise!” Then a noise bangs on his back and the bee flies away. Her and thousands of other ones. With them, my conscience floats too and I am flying in the space above the dude’s head, the swarm moving right through me. Shouldn’t it tingle?
Who cares? I want my fight. Take me back to my fight!
“Are you sure you got them back, Simon?” Says a voice from behind. He turns. That’s his name then, Simon. The other voice sounds like an older man, someone with authority. A boss, maybe? Because of the bee suits, I can’t tell what either of them looks like. Simon presses a button and an orchestra starts playing. Then the bees gather…and fly in a perfect circle, all in the same direction.
“Yep,” says the Simon guy under me, “They are all back. I placed a beacon and they came. A beacon for the bacon! How was the meeting?”
“They wanted to eat me alive,” the older man says.
They both chuckle and the older one continues, “Now they either fund us, or they shut us down. Are you sure you caught them all?” He insists.
“I guess so,” Simon answers. “Although, wouldn’t it be amazing if one of them had learned to avoid my lure and managed to hide away?”
“What side are you on, Simon?”
What are they talking about? The younger one paces around, checks the small monitor inside of the glass box. “Seriously, how likely is it that one of the agents may have escaped?”
“Highly unlikely. I promise: these creatures are fairly…single-minded.”
“You said the same thing when I asked if they could ever learn to multiply.”
“I thought you wouldn’t let me do it.” Simon pauses, raises his phone. “Here, check this out. How about we meet our subject tonight?”
“You scare me sometimes, Simon,” says the older of them. Then checks the phone and nods discreetly. “Ok,” he says. Excited, Simon takes one more look, but when I try to peek, the bright light stuns me once again. Flash!
“You sure this is the address, madam?” asks the cab driver. He seems genuinely worried. Enough to ignore my temporary confusion. It was only after I saw the building he pointed at with his nose that I managed to land in the present again. I show him my gloves and he nods, still unconvinced.
The School, irony noted, is exactly what the name says. An abandoned high-school on the outskirts of Oakland. In one of those areas where cops aren’t allowed. I bet I’m the only girl in at least three miles.
Only a few minutes left. Damn. I bang the metal doors, and it opens with a roar blasting from inside. Shouts, music, breaking glass…Goosebumps! “Tigress?” the bouncer asks, and I nod. He rushes me in. “You’re late.” Beyond the entrance, it smells like piss and sweat, every corner covered in layers of ripped old poster remains, and the ugliest graffiti, the largest one being the big red letters saying NO CAMS. Lights aren’t many. Neither on the lower level, where a netless hoop reveals the ruins of a basketball court, nor in the galleries upstairs, where stinky men elbow their way to the best view of this shithole. The perfect setting for an underground fight club.
In the center, over a three-foot tall raised stage, a makeshift cage. Improvised in its structure but as authentic as it gets in its function. Wooden floor covered with a cheap, thin mat, chicken wire walls, shaped like a Wudang octagon. Except this one has seven sides. I march.
Concentrating isn’t easy when you’re busy dodging the hands trying to touch your hair, face, boobs. Fingers I know I can break in a second. But no. I slap them and leave the impression to be made upstairs.
The announcer is looking at his wristwatch when my foot touches the first step. My handbag hits the floor, the mic-man turns to me, “What’s your name again, babe?” Give me a few minutes and I’ll show him who to call “babe.”
“Tigress,” I say through the speakers. He lays his eyes on my hair, which I dyed just for that fight—a thick white bleached line right in the middle, separating two black stripes on the top and the bottom. Like from the legend of the White Tiger Warrior from Wudang, who went to the West to protect the city. What the elders didn’t know was that Tiger would be a girl. The Master of Ceremony nods at my hairdo; “It makes sense,” he says. The crowd pours its dumbest collective cackle.
They will see. A little warm up of the shoulder, leap up a few times, stretch the arms and the wrists for mobility, and I am ready. I check on my scar. Jason told me to stay away from trouble for three weeks. He’s a doctor, he knows. On the other hand, he’s my boyfriend, which makes him care too much. We’re almost there and the stitches are gone, so I guess it’s all good. If the scar was going to open again, it would’ve done that with the Russians.
On the announcer’s command, the bell rings and my opponent comes charging and swinging. I stretch my wrists in two very wide circles that make my tendons awake, and squeeze my fingers into the tightest fist I can, as if I wanted to expel any air within it. They are rocks now. Heavy, compact, ready to go through walls if I need. Then I charge, weaving my head under the coming punch and striking the guy under his nose. One punch, his lights are out. Sounds at the venue seem out too. His body melts in front of mine, inch by inch, joint by joint, and I gaze at my own hands. Not that I ever doubted I could, I mean, I was absolutely positive about the outcome but….
“Holy Mother of God!” From the faceless crowd someone interrupts my thoughts, and they all explode again. They roar, throats vibrating so hard I can feel the air moving. The School is mine. “Do you want more?” I yap at them.
“Fuck yeah!” they respond.
“So give me another one!”
They can’t believe what they’re hearing. “But send a real man this time, ‘cause that was just an appetizer,” I say.
Between the high walls and the wire mesh, a packed, mean, degenerate crowd rumbles my name. “Tigress! Tigress! Tigress!” I can imagine how the immortal fighters of the past must have felt. Immortality is coming, Tigress.
“Immortality is coming, Tigress,” I hear the voice say. Shifu’s voice. Solid like a mountain, mysterious like the fog. Crisp as if I was really there and The School was just a faint memory from a life past.
Shifu, he enjoyed fucking with my brain. Staring at my eyes as I attempted to make sense of his sayings. I never asked for immortality. Quite the opposite. Yet, he insists. “You are destined to become one. I’ve seen it. Felt it. No one can make me believe otherwise,” he says.
“Do you mean a real immortal, ascended on the wings of dragons, or a master of unforgettable deeds?”
“Yes,” the motherfucker responds.
In my head, I make a list of the legends of modern fighting. All men.
“The Tigress, everyone!” Shouts the ring announcer and I wake up from the trance. “What an impressive start!” The smells and noises of The School overload my senses again. If I was going to be the first woman among the immortals of combat arts, I had to sport some spectacle. Not just smarts. Not just elegance. Not just wu wei and Wudang’s superiority of the spirit. I had to slap them a bit. Humiliate them in front of the crowd. Entertain, like a gladiator.
From the center of his hectogon, the man with the mic covers it and double checks if I really want another challenger. All theatrics, I know. The crowd is close enough to see what he’s doing, even hear his words. Pretending to be unsure, he checks if they want it too.
“Yeah,” they cry together. “Give us more! Give us more!”
They love me. Maybe I can do it indeed. Become a memory they can’t erase.
“Ok…Ok…you want more,” the MC says to the rambunctious troops, “I’ll give you more. But I warn you this ain’t gonna be pretty. Because I then will be forced to give you…Buffalo!”
At first, there are variations of “Wow!” and “Really?” Then, they start to take sides. Some scream “Tigress! Tigress! Tigress!” While others chant “Boo-fa-lo! Boo-fa-lo!”
Whoever he is I am ready. Send it.
The lights go off and they all wait. Silence. Silence. Silence. Then a bang. Music. Beats dropping heavy. Whatever that bass isn’t shaking, the stomping of the crowd is. “Boo-fa-lo! Boo-fa-lo!” I track the silhouette of the house favorite crossing the crowd, high-fiving a few along the way, a shoulder above most heads. Including two weird, nerdy-looking dudes, wearing polo shirts and everything. The creeps ignore the big man passing by them, their eyes locked on me, wide grins illuminated by their phones, out of context to the point where I can’t move my attention away from them, and now they probably think I am interested or something. I know that kind. Perverts. If they come within three feet of me I’ll….
Lights back on, he’s in the cage. The Buffalo. A giant hairy black man with shoulders growing all the way to his ears, biceps the size of melons and a chest made of two Mustang hoods. All that muscle may make him scary to the ordinary eyes. For me, he looks slow. The bell rings and I let him swing first. If I had a penny for every time a man tried to just blast shots at me thinking they could win just because I am a girl, I’d be a wealthy bitch. I kick upstairs to force him to raise his guard. He falls for it, and I drive all my motion into my fist. A short, and even light uppercut. Almost harmless—until the first makes contact with his skin. Then, I twist my body, let the weight sink, and the strike explodes with the energy of the universe.2 The shockwave pierces through his muscle reef. His liver deforms to my command, and the man folds with a grunt. I know it’s over, but there’s no stopping. Low kick, low kick, low kick. Oh, what’s that sweetie? Having a hard time walking now?
After a short snort, the Buffalo limps forward. Men get dumber when they are mad—try too hard to grab, to block, to show strength. The horde tries to help. “C’mon, Buffalo! Finish her!” barks some loser with delusions of being a coach. The bovine waits for his strength to resume. Liver hits aren’t deadly, but they suck the soul out of you. The injured organ wants you to lie on your back to recover. Animal cruelty, I think. But in a fight, cruelty is love. Self-love, at least. He pants, shakes his head, and charges, face to the mat, arms aiming at my lower limbs. The one dangerous thing about fighting men is they are bigger. I don’t mind taking hits. You can’t win if you’re not willing to get hurt. But you don’t wanna go down. So you have to play smart.
Without warning, a bright light flashes and I’m far away.
China. Why does this keep happening? What happened to Buffalo? Somewhere else, that giant is turning my head into a mash. Unless I can go back, and quick. Focus, Yinyin. Look. Understand. There’s probably a lesson here. Is that what the Dao wants to tell you? I’m in our training ground in the woods. An open circle surrounded by ginkgo trees and whispers of the wind. A firepit pouring the scent of Daoist Tea. My hair still black, no tats. In front of me, a slightly older boy. I remember! I’m sixteen years old. His name is Sean. Sean Young—rich little white brat Shifu agreed to train, I didn’t understand why at that time. A wrestler from San Francisco, California, who paid a lot of money to spend the summer learning how people from China fight. “Movies kind of shit,” he said. I was gonna give him “shit.”
Shifu likes to give me the foreigners. Being defeated by a girl is humiliating for them. Not sure I like that role, but I like losing even less. In a few minutes, we are sparring, people are watching, unsure if they’re supposed to root for the foreign man or the local girl. “You’re training the soft skill. Not trying to win,” says my master, “Hurt him, you lose.” Is this why I sent myself back to this moment? To remind me of the need to be soft? Assuming this was my own choice, hence an unconscious one. Fuck, Buffalo must be pummeling me on the other side of this. I need to get out of it. Yes, I got it, I need to be soft. Now take me back!
Sean attempts a take-down. A dive, arms open, trying to clasp my two legs. Nothing new, other than him being faster than most. For sure he’s been practicing that one move forever. Over and over. Shifu always said it’s easier to fight someone with a thousand lame moves than a fighter with a single strong one. I sprawl my legs back and push his shoulder down with my elbow. I’m safe. He takes a distance, measures me, tries again. The dude doesn’t even pretend to hide his plan!
A few shots in, he finally breaches my defense. His shoulder against my torso, hand behind my knee, I fly. Now we are on the floor. His body over mine, between my legs, pushing, pinning me down against the dirt. That’s when the white pig tries to kiss me. Eeew! I push him away and stand up again. He laughs loudly. So does the entire audience. Shifu warns me with a frown. “Forget the crowd, Tigress. Be yin, soft.”
Really? Forget the crowd? Yin? I slip away to safety. Next time he comes for my legs, I’ll go for his face.
He does. So does my knee.
Flash.
Back at The School, I leap with my knee forward, and enjoy the crunchy feel of Buffalo’s nose being smashed against my well-conditioned patella. With the impact, my body spins, and the landing isn’t the most elegant, but judging by the rumble behind me, his was worse.
I stand and turn back and he’s already up. Motherfucker has a broken nose and blood pouring everywhere. Still he smiles. In China we say red makes us happy. Maybe he is Chinese. Maybe he’s the buffalo Lao Tsu rode to the West after he wrote the Dao De Jing and I am hurting a creature sent by the gods.
Here comes another swing. Not taking risks. I cover my head with a full arm and pull his face straight onto my elbow. Still no fall. Shit!
The man is being battered but doesn’t seem to care.
“Fuck her in the ass, Buffalo!” someone shouts from the crowd.
“Yeah, she has a nice ass!” says someone else.
That’s enough. I go for his knee again. Kick him once, twice, three, seven times. Every step Buffalo takes, I hit him one more time and bounce away to pull him back. At first, his steps get lighter and he tries to jerk the leg away before I hit it. But my roundhouses are too quick for him. “Wow, the chick hits like a man,” says an anonymous idiot behind me, like it was a compliment. Finally, Buffalo’s leg fails and he kneels in pain. Against real technique, his strength has no chance.
He waves his arms in desperation, begging for the bout to be over.
There is no referee, so I search for the announcer. He hesitates and that’s my cue. I run and spin in the air. One of those flashy and unnecessary flying tornado kicks, the kind you only see in the movies, never in real fights. My heel lands on his chin and he drops with the splash of a wet towel, spilling his fluids in every direction.
There is silence for a second. He doesn’t move.
“Tigress!” screams the man with the mic, and the crowd goes wild. So loud I can feel their voices pulsing through my skin. They will be talking about this fight for a while now. My mind snaps back to Sean, in China, knocked out with his nose smashed like Buffalo’s. Behind him, Shifu’s eyes seemed like arrows of anger and embarrassment. I lower my head and brace myself. “Shifu, will I ever become more yin?” He shakes his head in a disappointment so profound I hope for lightning to take me right then and there.
“I’ll go to the cave,” I say, eyes low, voice defeated despite the victory.
“Why should I care,” he says.
Maybe I never will be yin. Maybe I don’t ever need to. My path may be different after all. It may come from the blood of those pigs daring to take advantage of me because I’m a girl. Or the jarring lungs of those idiots worshiping my fights at The School because I am not supposed to be there. I take a lengthy look at them, every one. They are ugly, big, sloppy, but they are mine, they love me. Including the two pervs who insist on their creepy stare. I give them the finger and let the praise sink in. Not yet the legend I wish to become someday, but quite a good start.
Twenty minutes later, I am already outside, bathed, changed and waiting for my car, when the phone rings. A video call, maybe from Lindsey, the caller ID says. Weird. I answer it, and a stranger pops into my screen. An older lady with a blue and a brown eye and the hair up in a very messy bun. When I ask her who she is, she apologizes. Says she needs to talk to me, about Oak Tree. I tell her she called the wrong number. I don’t donate, to anything. And press the red button before she could annoy me more.
A voice calls from my back. “Ms. Tigress?”
“No autographs tonight, sorry,” I joke. Not in the mood to deal with drunks either. The voice insists, crisp and way more…familiar? Also way more put together than I expect to hear there. “That’s not it, madam!” He says. “We want…we want to hire you.”
Ok, turn. Two nerds wearing pastel polo shirts. A young red-haired one chewing on a giant Snickers bar, and an older, balding one. The creeps! “Calm down, Simon. Explain it to her.”
Simon? The scientists! From the bees’ glass box. Yes, it is them. But how? How can that…My head races, trying to connect the dots, or at least not show the panic burning through my veins. By reflex, my hands clench, the knees drop an inch. “Get the fuck out of my head!” I yell.
“Out of your head? What do you mean?” the older one asks.
Shit!
They stare at each other, not sure if they look intrigued, amused or confused. “I mean, get out of my way! I gotta go home.”
Is this another flash or is reality turning that odd? Which is reality? I still have my phone, and the noises from The School still echo behind those two. In my hand, the little device buzzes, pointing at the place where I should meet the driver. “Maybe another time, folks.”
I walk away, feeling the annoying nerds’ eyes glued to my behind and hoping an aftershock doesn’t drag the internet back down again and make me lose my ride. “Seriously, Ms. Tigress! We need you to teach us how to fight.” says Simon, the younger one. I want to laugh. “Yes, fight,” says the other. “Our names are…”
“Dr. Perry Lambrechts and Dr. Simon O’Dell,” I say. Even if I have no idea how.
“Yes….” they say from the distance. Why did I say that?! “You guys are famous,” I try to fix it, “you’re all over the internet, you know?” I turn my back on them and start to walk away.
“Apparently—” says the older voice. That’s when someone gets stupid and holds my arm. Really? One second, and Simon’s face is contorted, his arm stretched, his feet barely touching the floor, while I hold his entire body weight on the weakness of his elbow. He grunts in pain, taps on his leg, asking for mercy. “Ms. Yang! Please!” begs the older dude, “For as much pleasure as I take on watching you do this to him, we both need his arm in good shape for what we need to do next.”
This is crazy. I let him go, continue my path to the meeting point indicated on screen. They still follow me, the expression on Simon’s face a mystifying mix of joy and pain. He rotates his limb and massages the shoulder. “Ooh, rowdy!” he says, and I regret not ripping his limbs off already.
That’s when he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and my entire body snaps in position. “Wait,” he says and brings out two more candy bars. He offers me one, hands the other to his boss. “No, thanks,” I say, and keep going. Those guys should be huge with all that sugar.
Simon runs past me, keeps walking backward so he can face me and I hope he trips and smacks his red head on the ground. “We saw your performance, and it was quite…spectacular.” It was, indeed. But this conversation…I want nothing to do with it. I try to pass through them. This time, they don’t dare to touch me.
At this point we are already at the corner where the car should arrive at any time. I check the screen, the app seems to be working fine, but who knows, these days. Please get me out of this nightmare. “Leave me alone,” I cry without looking again, and the older one seems to come to his senses. “Sorry. Simon, I told you this was a mistake.”
“Yeah, a mistake,” he says, looking at me, “approaching you like this, after a fight, all that adrenaline running through your blood….But we really want you.” My phone beeps and a blue dot tells me my car is almost there. I press my teeth against each other, and I hiss the air in and out before I turn back at them.
“Sorry, I don’t teach men.”
2. One of the most impressive aspects of internal martial arts like Tai Chi is what they call Fa Jing, the ability to turn relaxation into a very explosive power. It’s beautiful to see. Or scary, if you’re on the receiving end.